Blade's Edge
by ShadowMayne
Summary: Dean took it all without complaint he protected Sammy without thought for himself. Now he's the one in trouble and every second he's gone his death comes a little closer. Can anyone save him?
1. Word Warfare

**A/N:  
**This story is undergoing some revision before I update it again. I'm so sorry if I'm spamming everyone's emails after so long! Don't worry, the story will be picked up again soon. In the mean time, there will be some inconsistencies within the story as I swap the chapters over to the newer version.

**Blade's Edge**

"Dad," Sam's voice was calm, but it narrowed eyes shot warning signs across the room. His arms folded defiantly over his chest, and John Winchester knew his son was gearing up for a fight.

"Sam." He responded carefully, opening his hands from their fists. He felt like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

"I don't want to go hunting _Dad._"

John pushed his anger down once again, fighting for control of his emotions his said calmly, "I know Sammy, but people's lives are at stake."

The fuse was getting shorter.

Sam's weight shifted and John straightened up from the maps he'd had spread on the dining table. "Hunting is our job, it's important, more important than movies, son."

He suppressed a wince, the timer was up. The bomb detonated anyway.

"Oh! Silly me, how could I forget, you don't care!" Sam was breathing heavily, feet planted; ready to dig his heels in. "You NEVER care! You're such a-."

Screw calm. Fight fire with fire.

"SAM! There are people who are going to _die _tonight! We can't just decide to let them suffer so you can do what you _want!_" John threw a pleading glance at his eldest son who lingered in the doorway, watching the fight with tense shoulders and piercing eyes.

Dean Winchester didn't respond, his eyes were darting between his father and his kid brother like his watching a high speed tennis match. The ball was a grenade. Dean was not going to offer any help for fear of catching it unawares. Their eyes met for a moment, and the tension in the room was tangible.

Dean's eyes strayed back to his brother as he started his tirade again. "All we ever do is follow you on your stupid crusade; I just want to be normal for ONE NIGHT dad, one night!"

"So what do you want to do, Sammy?" John asked. "What is it that is so important that someone can die for you to do it? Huh? Is the new television worth more than a life?"

Sam seemed to falter there, blazing eyes staring at his father. There was an awkward pause, John had been backing Sam into the metaphorical corner. If Sam relented he'd be admitting to John's position. "I want to go see a movie."

John stared incredulously at his son, "You would condemn someone to die to see a _movie?_" He hissed, wondering how the hell he had raised his children.

Sam faltered again; he recognised this is a lost cause. John sighed, but the fallout wasn't over. Sam's puppy dog eyes turning on. "After the hunt then?"

John sensed Dean tense in the corner, apprehensive of the answer, hawk eyes drilling a hole in the wall. He wondered why his son had reacted this way, his mind mulling it over he turned his eyes back to Sammy.

Dean's always telling him to compromise with Sammy.

"Yeah, after the hunt we can go as a family." He relented, realizing that just this once he'd have to meet Sam somewhere in the middle.

Sam smiled, "Thanks dad!" He said enthusiastically, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

John relaxed, finding momentary relief, right until he heard the front door slam with a ferocity that made him jump, hands instinctively on the small gun that was tucked in his jacket pocket.

Sam's smile faded, "What the..?"

"Dean seem upset to you today, Sammy?" John asked, eyes following his eldest son through the window as he walked to the Impala and pulled open the door before disappearing into the drivers' seat to adjust the speakers before climbing over the seats. Seconds later Dean was sprawled in the back seat as Metallica blasted through the speakers from the front.

"No, you do something stupid again?"

John winced, of course he had.

_John had been pouring over the newspaper, still fuming over the recent fight with his youngest son, Dean had hastily cleared the plates up from dinner and washed them, glancing back at his father across the room._

_"Dad?" Dean had asked tentatively._

_"What?" John had snapped, feeling immediate shame for taking his anger out on his eldest._

_"Catherine, Jamie and Ben are driving up here tomorrow…" He had started, shifting under his father's steady glare. "Can I go out with them, just hang out…or something?" He mumbled, trying not to look too excited, obviously preparing to be disappointed._

_John had racked his brain for a moment, trying to remember where those random names had come from. He let out a sigh as he realized they were the friends Dean has left behind not so long ago, from before their last move._

_For the first and last time Dean had protested leaving town when he had met the troublesome trio. They had been good friends for some time, he had no idea they were still in contact._

_"We're hunting tomorrow." He had said stiffly, trying not to let his son's broken expression sway him._

_"But after the hunt?" Dean had asked._

_John had sighed, his son didn't usually ask for much and it had been nice to see Dean smile when his friends had been around. Deciding to treat son John had nodded._

Snapping back to the present John realized he had just promised Sam that Dean would come with them, as a family, which meant he had just crushed Dean's only chance to see his friends again; they'd probably have to clear out pretty fast after the hunt was over.

Sighing, he chalked it up to a bad day and made himself promise he would drive Dean down to see his friends soon; he just had to find another hunt in that direction.

He followed Sam out to the Impala, deciding the hunt was the most important thing at the moment.

Dean sat up in the back seat, avoiding eye contact as John ushered Sam into the front, trying to respect Dean's need for space.

"Ready boys?"

"Yes sir." Dean said quietly, and John was relieved that his son didn't seem too angry with him. At least Dean had a proper respect for authority.

Maybe he should mention that he'll drive them down to see Dean's friends soon? He decided not to though, because he can't have this conversation right now.

Ss John pulled out of the motel parking lot he glanced back at Dean, who was staring out of the window with a blank expression.

He'll deal with it later.

If only he had of known in that moment: he would never get the chance to have that conversation with his son.

- TBC -

Reviews are eternally appreciated and much loved.


	2. Alert but Not Aware

**Edit: **This is the new version of this chapter. I've preserved the main story and just re-written the truly terrible parts, so I'm still not really happy with it! Thanks for everyone who has reviewed so far, I appreciate it!

**Chapter Two**

The Impala rolled to a stop on the abandoned road. John was at least thankful that there'd be fewer witnesses if something went wrong. He was getting sick of lying to the cops. Even talking to them was getting frustrating. The boys slid from their seats in silence, an action rehearsed so many times in their lives it was with near perfect timing that their respective doors opened and shut together.

John killed the engine and followed their lead, pulling his journal from the dash; he'd made a thousand notes the night before. Re-reading them, he compared the printed photo of the house with the one that stood before them.

Sam was a few steps ahead of Dean, who was sitting on the bonnet of the Impala. They both turned to look at him as he approached.

"Ok boy, let's run through this again." If the last hunt had proven anything, it was that he had to be clear. He smiled at the memory of his sons' faces as he calmly informed them they'd been digging up the _wrong _John Smith. Sam had been appalled; Dean was convinced that there was some sort of John Smith conspiracy going on.

The two boys gathered closer to him, eyes focused on the notes he held up as they waited for John to talk again.

"We've got a Mrs…" John paused, looking for the name.

"Josie Smith." Dean supplied in a monotone, evidently still sulking. His gun was resting in his hands as he idly flicked the safety on and off again. Once upon a time, that habit had made John nervous. It still did, actually, but he trusted his son to at least not point the damn thing at anything he was fond of.

"Right," John agreed, ignoring his moody son. "Murdered: June 12 1901."

Both boys nodded.

"Married a guy called Hector Smith, and had a son, Keith." John continued.

"So, this Hector guy was a nasty husband, beat his son and then he used an antique sword from his collection to stab Josie, she dies, turns into an angry spirit. Her son was killed by the father then too, stabbed as well." He put the journal back into the car, "Best I can tell she hunts the husband down in her afterlife and kills him with his own sword. Authorities are baffled."

Dean smirked at that statement, muttering something along the lines of, "Always are."

"Now this psycho woman is killing people." John took a deep breath; it always made him angry to think that people could turn into that after death.

"Simple salt and burn." Sam said, mechanically. He was already edging towards the house, and John suspected it was because they had less than three hours before the movie started. Dean would need at least two of those to shower.

"Do we know where they buried the bitch?" Dean asked, pushing away from the car to stand upright, watching his brother with a smile.

"Never found the body, I reckon Hector left her somewhere in the house." John replied, at least Dean was on the ball.

"So, we go in and each check a different level of the house, easy." Dean announced, starting away from his father. "We'll need guns." Sam took off at a faster pace now he had the unspoken permission to do so.

John overtook them easily as he trudged around to the back of the car and started strapping guns to his waist, and shovelling rock salt in his pockets.

Sam and John followed suit, John pulling his eldest away for a moment. "Dean, about your friends..."

Dean faltered before plastering a fake smile on his face. "Its fine, dad, really."

John looked unconvinced so Dean shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. "We weren't that close anyway."

John nodded, knowing Dean was lying. "We'll talk after." He promised.

They headed towards the house; it was two storeys high, with a basement presumably.

Dean had seen his fair share of run-down houses, it came with the territory of 'hunter', but this one was a particularly bad case. It was boarded up, the left end of the front steps and veranda were rotten wood. The door itself was leaning again the front wall, the now empty doorway was guarded with a few mismatched boards across it, easy to duck under and pass through.

"I'll take this floor." Sam offered carefully, they all knew he had a thing against going into the basements of these houses.

"I take basement." Dean suggested, peering over at the door on the far side of the empty room.

"I don't think those stairs will support me, Dean you take upstairs, and I'll do the basement." John cut across. Basements were for the most experienced hunter, they had minimal lighting and tended to present more options for being trapped or hurt. At least upstairs Dean could climb out of windows if necessary. He dubiously eyed the stairs, and he honestly wasn't sure of that rotting wood. He'd send Sammy if he didn't want him close by in case his youngest found trouble. He always did.

Dean nodded, not questioning his father, and headed upstairs. "Meet back here in an hour." Dean placed his feet on the edge of the first stair; it creaked as he shifted his weight but didn't collapse. With a bit more confidence, he started his careful climb.

His brother was moving off to the right, his father shouting something about staying alert. Dean almost rolled his eyes, didn't that order really go without saying these days?

Apparently not, because Dean never saw the flicker of motion through the doorway he passed, and he never heard the soft footsteps following him down the hallway and deeper into the house.

- TBC -


	3. The Haunted Hunter

**Edit: **Thanks so much for sticking with me through all of this. Your support means the absolute world to me!

Again, I've just re-worded the really cringe worthy stuff. The story is the same.

**Chapter Three**

John took a few more steps towards the back wall of the basement. He could hear the creaking of Sam's feet above him; he mentally made a note to tell that boy to be a little stealthier.

Looking around the dim room he walked cautiously forwards. The room was small, the floor was dirt – perhaps the original surface was gone, or buried.

If he wanted to find a body under here he'd be digging a while. Sighing and deciding to head back to the motel to do a little more research, find a few more places to check before coming back here as a final resort and digging the house up.

Turning on his heel he carefully walked up the stairs, running into Sam at the top of the stairs.

"Find anything, kiddo?" He asked, not expecting a positive answer.

Sam shook his head. "There's nothing but empty rooms really." His voice echoed into the basement.

John nodded, "I didn't think there'd be much on the higher levels, maybe your brother found something?"

Sam shrugged, "He's been gone a while, we said we'd meet back here five minutes ago." Sam glared accusingly at his father; clearly he had been waiting on John for some time.

"Right, sorry, wanted to check the walls and stuff have to be thorough Sammy."

Sam scowled. "It's Sam," he said, "why is that so hard to understand?"

John smiled, he had always loved the expression on Sam's face when he called him Sammy, but he'd never tell Sam that. The frustration of not finding anything was momentarily forgotten. His youngest son set his things on the floor with a huff and stood there, arms crossed.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, _Sam_?"

"Where do you think Dean is?"

"Huh?"

"He's never late, not when he knows I'll be waiting."

John felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. His eyes widened as he looked up stairs. "Dean?" He raised his sidearm as they moved towards the stairs. Silently, creeping across the floor like a mouse. He needn't have bothered though, because Sam was clomping along behind him loud enough to wake the dead.

Unfortunately the dead were already awake.

Rounding the corning, John flinched to stillness, his son peering out from behind him.

A tall woman stood at the top of the stairs, her eyes watching down the hallway they couldn't see. A smile played on her lips. Her long black hair caught in a breeze that couldn't have made it into the house as she turned towards them.

John moved forwards slowly, warily. He was waiting for her to make a move. The smile lingered on her lips as he approached. It grew as she turned away from them. Her body flickered, like the screen of the television in the dingy motel they'd been staying.

There was a pause, then everything was suddenly in motion. She was gone, her terrifying smile burnt into John's mind.

There was a crash from above them somewhere. A shout. Then silence.

John was spurred into action instantly, racing up the stairs two at a time, not bothering to be careful with the rotting wood. Somewhere behind him he could hear Sam scrambling along.

They hurtled down the hall, opening every door they came across. A mad dash was underway, seconds were ticking by.

"DEAN!"

As that word left John's lips, the door at the end of the hallway slammed shut.

John would bet his life it was not the wind that caused the sudden slam.

Sam grabbed John's hand, his voice shaking as he whispered. "Dad, please tell me Dean's ok."

John only shook his head, before throwing his full weight at the door, hoping beyond hope it would burst open and he'd see the smiling face of his eldest staring back at him.

Instead, what happened was exactly what he had expected; he smashed into the door with a horrendous force and bounced back like a cartoon. Rubbing his sore shoulder he tried again to no avail.

He heard Sam shift behind him; he pounded on the door with his fists.

"DEAN!"

Silence replied him.

"DEAN!"

"Dean? Please?" Sammy joined the yelling, but no answer came, and they both quietened, glancing at each other fearfully.

"Dad?" Sammy said, panicking, "Why did it take him? Why did it? It won't hurt him right? I mean…he's not like her husband is he? Why not us?"

"Sammy," John said, turning to look at his son, still tense, waiting for the spirit to attack them. "I think we made a mistake."

OoOoOoOoO

_Five minutes earlier:_

Dean walked down the hall, unaware of the gentle padding of feet behind him.

He pushed the final door open, and walked boldly in, gun first. He didn't expect to find anything anyway. Checking his watched he realised he was late, cursing himself he turned back to the door.

He paused, listening; he could almost hear the gentle voice saying, _where are you going?_

He turned back, glancing around the room.

_Where are you going? _

His eyes narrowed, frantic eyes. Searching. He knew there was something else here.

Steadying his gun he took a few quick paces back.

_Don't go. You can't go. _

Before he knew it he was sailing into the wall, the resounding crash of his body bouncing off the timber and landing on the floor.

He looked up, her eyes were flashing silver. She looked down at him.

"This is my revenge." She whispered, cupping his cheek in her hand.

Dean struggled against her grip, but it was life he couldn't move. Somewhere in the distance he heard his father and Sammy racing up the stairs.

Something hit his head, yelling in shock he jerked away from her.

The thud of another door somewhere being thrown open, hurried footsteps, his name being called again and again.

He glanced at the hilt of the sword as she raised it again, and brought it crashing to his temple, he crumpled.

The last thing he heard was the sound of the door slamming, followed by the heavy thud of John Winchester running into it in the attempt to set his son free.

He stared up at the silver eyes above him, until it all faded to black.

OoOoOoO

"Mistake?" Sam seethed. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

The panic was rearing its ugly head in the form of anger, turning on Sam's usual target, his father.

"We have to get outta here Sam, call some contacts, get a plan and come back for your brother."

"I'm not leaving without him."

"We can't do anything while we're here. This arguing is wasting time." John turned promptly on his heel and headed to the door.

Praying Dean could survive long enough.

Praying the night would be a safe one for his son.

But who was he kidding? His eldest was in the clutches of some horrible ghost who wanted revenge.

Safe? His son was far from it, he knew it, and Sam knew it. Bursting out of the front of the house and running to the car he begged whatever had the power to help Dean through Dean.

- TBC -

Thanks for everyone's support so far! Please review if you have the time!


	4. Adrift, Almost Awake

EDIT: Again, just re-written. Plot explained a bit more in this chapter!

**Chapter Four**

John ran at full speed to the car, searching through every weapon he had looking for something to break down the door, he knew he couldn't face this ghost without more information, but he wasn't leaving Dean unless he was sure he was going to be ok. He couldn't leave without trying.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up from where he was, throwing rocks at the windows of the house, venting anger. John tried to contain his surprise as one of them bounced back without damaging the glass, skittering across the gravel and landing at his feet. _Keep calm for Sammy. _

"Sam I need you to call Bobby and ask him if he can remember anything about where they might have buried this woman." Bobby had been helping with the research via the phone when he could, and John knew he'd at least have access to more information than they had with them here, in this empty place. Fewer witnesses had been a good thing before, now it meant less help. What if his son was hurt? He couldn't panic. _Keep calm for Sammy. _That's what Dean always told him. Dean. He could do this.

Sam nodded, taking John's cell phone and hitting the speed dial, still glaring daggers at his father.

Bobby picked up on the third ring.

"Hey Bobbie, it's Sam."

_Hey Kiddo, watcha calling for?_

"Dad screwed up."

_Oh. _It was apparent Bobby was well aware of the rift growing between father and son. _Screwed up what?_

"We're at that job _you _sent us on and now Dean is trapped in a house." Sam wasted no breath on blaming Bobby, he didn't need to. John turned back to the car, trying to choose between a shotgun for blasting through the door and an axe for hacking it open.

_But this chick only goes after people who remind her of her husband, you know, that psycho that killed her._

"I can assure you, she went after Dean." Sam snapped, pegging another rock at the window. Like all the others, it bounced away from the protective supernatural shield that invisibly guarded its prisoner. John tracked its progress, wondering if that was the reason the house was still standing after all this time in disrepair. He didn't want to think about what that could mean if they killed the ghost before Dean got out.

_But…why? _Bobby sounded genuinely baffled, Sam looked angrier. _Was that even possible at this point?_

John remembered the task at hand, and decided a shot-gun _and _an axe couldn't hurt. He threw matches and salt into a bag – just in case.

OoOoOoOoO

"Doesn't matter why, where's she buried?"

Sam was growing sick of incompetent old people; they were all sitting there self-righteous and insistent that they were right. He didn't have time to sit down and thoroughly go through an hour long plan of attack.

Dean was in danger right now.

What Dean most certainly did not need was Bobby and John sitting down and analysing their mistakes over a cup of coffee, especially when at least three states separated them.

As far as Sam was concerned no mistakes should be made, and he fully meant to grill both John and Bobby if he got Dean back. No, _when _he got Dean back.

_I don't know where she's buried Sammy. _Bobby's voice replied, he was unaware of Sam's inner rant.

"Can you find out?" Sam asked, realised he had been a little rude to the one of the people who could help save his brother.

_Maybe, I'll check it out, tell your dad to be careful. _With that Bobby hung up the phone and Sam snapped the flip down on John's phone, pausing only to briefly wonder how on earth the man worked the damn thing, he still couldn't get the toaster incident out of his head or the particularly interesting expedition in which a poor unsuspecting hair dryer had met it's early end, followed by an electric razor and three microwave ovens that had really never been the same again.

He turned back to his father, silently approving of the heavy arsenal going into the bag.

OoOoOoO

She watched his chest rise and fall. Rise and fall.

Up and down.

It made her angry. How was it fair that he sound live and she should die? How could he? How could he do this to her?

The antique sword hovered beyond her reach, one of many that her husband had left lying around the house.

She looked back at her hostage. She'd tried to forgive him. Honestly, she had, but the more she thought about it, the more the remembered about his betrayal, the more she hated him. She longed to kill him, to watch the light die in his eyes.

She could almost hear his heart beating. It haunted her steps, drove her mad in the silence. She could never escape. Never escape?

The house felt so small, so lonely. He had left her here to die!

This was her justice.

If the world would not convict her true murderer then she would do it herself.

She ran a finger down the sharp blade, festering with anger when yet another rock pelted into her window. She sent her life force out, strengthening the glass so it wouldn't shatter, keeping the house upright.

She longed to plunge the sword right into his stomach, but she needed him awake first, needed him to feel that pain she had. She needed her revenge so desperately. It sustained her, kept her upright. It was her blood, her life, her everything.

So she gently leant forwards and ran her cold hands over his cheek, coaxing his tired eyes to open. She had done it a thousand times. Remembering those rainy days when those big brown eyes would follow her from room to room begging to be allowed into the storm made her feel sick.

She protected him! Held him!

He betrayed her.

He had to pay.

OoOoOoO

John fished around in the car some more before finding another item with promise, a hammer suitable for knocking down the door that was keeping his son in. If this didn't work they would have to return to the motel and desperately scour the internet for clues and help.

He nodded to his son, who dutifully relayed his conversation with Bobby to him, though he had heard most of it. Sam wasn't a quiet one at the best of times.

"Dad?" Sam asked as they returned to the door. It loomed ominously above them. John set his things down, and pulled out the hammer first.

"What?" His father grunted, hacking at the wood with vigour.

"What did you mean when you said you made a mistake before?"

"Well, I thought you boys would be safe because she was after revenge on her husband."He slammed into the door again, leaving no mark. "But what if…" He hit again, this time harder. "What if it wasn't her husband that killed her?"

His foot met the door with a loud thud but the door didn't budge. He relegated the axe to the 'useless' pile and picked up the axe.

Sam's eyes widened in comprehension. "What if she was after revenge on her son, or people like him…people like-."

"Dean." John finished his sentence before calling his son's name a little louder. The axe wasn't working either.

He sighed, maybe his shot-gun would come through for him.

OoOoOoOoO

Cold fingers brushed his forehead and he twitched, trying to escape the icy touch. His head throbbed and it felt like he was lying on the swaying deck of a boat. The world rocked beneath him.

"Wake...my..."

Was someone talking to him? His hearing was coming and going in sinusoidal waves of awareness.

"My son?" The voice made him shiver; he knew it wasn't his parents. If he was dead he wasn't with his Mother.

"Who...?" He asked, his eyes closed against the shifting realities the world around him. Colours were dancing behind his eyelids.

"That's it." The voice encouraged as he groaned. His head was killing him. Was he hit by a truck?

His eyes fluttered, a flash as silver danced across his vision. A knife? A sword?

His eyes drooped closed again, it was too bright outside. There was a loud pounding noise outside. He wished it would go away.

_Boom. _

_Boom. _

_Boom!_

Canons firing from a ship. The world was rocking. The waking world was sucked away from his dreamy beach like the ocean.

He didn't know it at the time, but when it crashed back again, it would bring a world of pain to his isolation.

- TBC -


	5. Breathing through Blood

**Edit: **this was my least favourite chapter of all the ones I'd previously written. It's been changed pretty dramatically. Once again, thanks for reading!

**Chapter Five**

Dean's friends were making good time on their trip up to visit him. Three teenagers crammed in the tiny car. One of them singing loudly and out of tune.

"Catherine, make Jamie shut up."

Jamie, the blonde and buff singer, only grinned and sang slightly louder.

"Catherine." The whine came again.

Catherine sighed; between Ben and Jamie this was going to be the longest drive of her life. Ever. She hoped it would be worth it. Dean has already called them and said he was staying at a motel for a while and to come visit him tomorrow night before they moved somewhere else.

She missed Dean. He had been the new kid, and straight away she had fallen head over heels with the rest of the girls in her grade and spent half of her time drooling over him. When Jamie had gotten sick of the constant talk about Dean, he had done the only thing that got her tongue-tied: asked Dean to hang out with them.

Dean has instantly hit it off with Jamie and Ben. They became good friends, and delighted thoroughly in tormenting teachers.

She spent most of her time blushing and stumbling over words. He had been so sweet about it though, pretending not to notice and distracting the guys when they picked on her too much. She'd almost hoped maybe he would take her to the dance...

Then Dean left. Still, she had called when she knew she would be heading north for the long weekend, and had invited her friends to join her. He had warned her he might not be there long, but, well, she had to try didn't she? Good friends were hard to come by.

Still, she was beginning to regret letting Jaime pick the music.

OoOoOoO

Consciousness crashed into him like a tidal wave against the shore. He woke up disoriented, gasping, something cold was pressed against his cheek.

He frowned, his eyes fixed on the ones staring back at him. Josie? The spirit was leaning over him, her cold hand caressing his face, running through his hair, fingers lovingly tracing his jaw line.

"What's happening?" He whispered, his hands feeling the floor to either side of him, looking for his gun, salt, a light, _anything!_

She smiled; her long ghostly hair fell across her shoulder and tickled his face. Icy tendrils brushed against his skin and left it burning in pain. Her eyes narrowed she saw his hands wandering away from his body.

In an instant she was gone, across the room with a flicker of light. Freed from the trance of her presence, Dean sat up. Watching her closely from the corner of his eye he started looking around for his gun.

"Don't go." She whispered. "You can't go."

She was moving closer. Abandoning his search in order to scramble away from her he half-fell into the wall. Feeling unbalanced, as if he'd been drinking all night, he used it to support himself as he made an blundering escape to the far wall, his gun caught his sight. She moved between him and the object of his desire.

"Goddammit! What the hell did you hit me so hard for?" He growled, inching closer to her, to his gun.

_Revenge. _

The answer was obvious. And slowly Dean put together what his father and brother had already.

Her son had killed her.

"Look, lady," He said, trying his luck with words, "this revenge thing isn't healthy." He ignored the irony of _that _statement. The scraping sound of metal on wood made him look up; the sword was summoned to its mistress with a flick of her transparent wrist.

She smiled at him softly, wistfully and he dove for the gun. It skittered away from him.

The blade wavered in the air, and tracked his progress across the room, he huddled into the corner. Defenceless.

Dean flinched realising what she was going to do to him.

He heard a thud on the door and realised his father and brother were trying to get in.

"Dad!" He shouted.

"Dean!" The door muffled that reply but he still heard Sam's joyous voice.

The sword came closer to his stomach.

He wrapped his arm protectively around his abdomen; he could feel his muscles rippling under his hands. Not the stomach, he pleaded to himself, but when the sword dipped, pressing against his chest, leaning almost painfully against the toned muscles of his stomach he couldn't help it.

"DAD!"

She leant forward ever so slightly, the blade slid into his skin, just below his ribs. Slowly, oh so slowly, it pressed a little harder.

He swore this time, a cross between a shout and a sob.

"Dean?" Somewhere someone was shouting to him.

His hands wrapped around the sword, trying to pull it out, his palms were sliced open. Slick with his own blood he couldn't get a grip.

"Dad?" He asked, quieter this time. He started at the bloody wound on his stomach.

She was laughing. It filled his ears. His mouth opened and closed but words couldn't form. His breath was sucked into lungs but he soon tried to stop, he couldn't move, everything hurt too much.

Dean stared in shock at his new wound then back at her.

What was happening to him?

- TBC -

Reviews are loved, always.


	6. News

I am so sorry guys – but this delay has been out of my control.

Yes, I know, I have been horrible at updating of late. There has been 3 counts of illness, fainting spells, stressful school term, 3 debates, and a drama production in which my fellow actors didn't arrive at the venue until right before we went on (I'm talking 5 minutes). I was freaking out and needless to say I have been a bit overstretched and flustered.

I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me, please know that I am very sorry.

**Blade's Edge**

John pounded the dusty door again in blind anger. His eldest son had screamed for him. It had been so long since he'd heard a that voice filled of fear, he paused, listening, hoping to hear Dean laugh and tell him he was stupid for falling for some new practical joke.

Of course there was nothing. He sighed, closing his eyes he glanced around. He found himself fervently wishing he was sitting in some dodgy cinema watching that epic story about the lame superhero in tight clothing with a half hearted mask.

Those people aren't heroes. He thought bitterly as he pounded the door again. They weren't arrested everyday, they had alter egos to hide behind and they weren't forced into their crusade. Not like Sammy and Dean.

Sammy and Dean held this job up for him so well, Dean particularly. With that stab of realisation he backed away from the door. Dean, his eldest son, who had fought since he was four and never once complained.

Not about leaving town, not about missing those movies, not about having to dump his girlfriends, not about the people they left behind or the things he missed out on. Not about having to look after Sammy when they were hunting and when they weren't.

He didn't even voice his opinion earlier when he'd been refused access to his friends for Sammy. Sure he'd sulked, gotten angry, but he didn't complain or protest. He accepted it.

John glared at the door, the one thing that stood between him and his son. It was going to be burned at the end of this.

"Dad?" Sam whispered behind him.

"What is it?" John asked, turning his attentions from saving his eldest to watching his youngest.

"Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?" John demanded, wondering how deeply he had been in thought.

"Hear that!" Sam announced.

John furrowed his eyebrows. Listening intently now he turned his head back to the room.

There it was; a whisper of a sound, so quiet John could've sworn he'd imagined it.

"That." Sam supplied unnecessarily.

John nodded, fear gripping his heart and its cold fingers running along his veins.

There was silence as John replayed the sound in his mind; it was one he'd never forget. It was the sound of Dean's moans.

Panicking he rammed the door again, this time with more power, praying he wouldn't be too late.

No, he definitely would NOT be too late. They were going to go to that stupid movie of Sam's and then they were going to go find Catherine and Jamie and Ben and apologise.

And they were going to do it all with Dean.

He was not too late. Dean is always ok.

Repeating the mantra in his John raised the hammer he had previously forgotten he had brought with him from their expedition to the car and hacked at the door with renewed fervour.

OoOoOoO

Sam watched his father smash against the door again. He knew by John's response that he had come to the same conclusion about the sound. Fingering the mobile phone John had put in his hands before running bolding into the door again and again, he wondered about Dean.

Was his brother ok? He'd never heard Dean moan, but now he realised, it had been quiet for quite some time. He bit his lip, was it worse or better that Dean was quiet.

At least noise meant life.

Sam jumped as the phone in his hands run shrilly. Shaking himself mentally he checked the caller ID and felt a glimmer of hope.

"Bobby?!" He half yelled.

_Yeah, I did some research. _Bobbie replied, apparently unfazed by Sam's shout.

OoOoOoO

Bobby listened to the dial tones as he called John's phone. One of two things would happen now, John would answer and bark orders or Sam would answer and reprimand him.

Either way he knew they'd be yelling. Chuckling mildly he remembers the old saying "Like father, like son." If ever there was a pair so similar it was them.

Sadly, they were both stubborn as hell and he felt supremely sorry for poor Dean who would have to face that on a day to day basis.

Thinking of Dean made him bite his lip. Dean was a good kid, and he'd make an amazing hunter one day. Just like his daddy he'd be one of the best. Hoping Dean would live to be that hunter, and perhaps have his own life too; Bobby clutched the paper with his messy scrawl all over it. Hoping beyond hope that his would help.

He already felt guilty; he'd sent them on this job. And even if this was life, and he'd fully accepted this was the risk of hunting, he'd still feel guilty if Dean died.

_Bobby?! _Came Sam's voice, and just as predicted, Sam had decided against using his "indoors voice".

"Yeah, I did some research." He said, waiting.

There was a beat of silence followed by an annoyed sigh on the other end of the line.

_Well that's good to know, thanks so much for sharing!_ Sam's voice hissed, anger and panic seeping into every word.

"Sam, calm down! Ok, we _think_, emphasis on the "think", that her body was buried in her basement. Her husband kept on shrieking about his son being in the basement after she died. Then of course, he'd died in the same place and then the son was just leaving when mother dearest stuck him like a pig."

_You think?! You think? My brother is being held by a crazy woman and your THINKING!? How sure are we?_

Bobby sighed, this was understandable, after all, Dean was Sam's brother and Sam had the temper of John Winchester himself.

"I'm sure enough." Bobby replied, praying to whatever holy beings out there that he was right.

Sam would never forgive him if he was wrong.

John would hate him until the day he died.

Dean would die.

And Bobby, himself, he'd probably never forgive himself either. But this was the hunt. Sometimes you have to gamble. There's nothing you can do about it. Bobby had accepted that.

He hoped.

He went to wish Sam good luck, but then realised that the teenager had already hung up and was no doubt already tearing apart the basement and screaming at his father.

Muli-tasking was one of Sam's specialities. Bobby himself had witnessed the kid write an assignment while researching for a hunt, watching TV and arguing with John.

It was phenomenal.

--- TBC ---

I did try to make this longer, sorry again. Please review it! I promise that if I get enough reviews I'll update in the next 2 weeks.

So, REVIEW!


	7. Digging

Hey guys – like I promised, in the 2 weeks I set for myself. YAY!

Anyway, thanks a bunch to everyone who reviewed!

--------------- --

Sam waited long enough for Bobby to tell him he was pretty sure before hanging up. He'd be damned if he was being polite.

His father would no doubt yell at him for it later, but right now Dean kinda mattered more the manners. Stuffing the mobile in his pocket rather hastily he informed his father of the new development before turning back to the door and shouting, "DEAN?"

John raised his eyebrows, obviously asking if Sam thought he'd get a reply.

Sam ignored his father; he felt the need to tell Dean where they were going anyways, even if he wasn't awake. Sam didn't want Dean to think they'd left. "We're leaving for two minutes man! We'll get ya out of there!"

With the promise made Sam and John turned on their heels and headed towards the stairs at a break neck pace.

Hurtling after Sam, John reached in his pockets, seeking the lighter and small flask of gas he kept there. If there was one thing he'd learnt over all these years it was to always be prepared, even if it meant carrying bandaids in your socks, salt in the upturns of your jeans and guns tucked in the waistband of your pants, not that John made a regular habit out of any of the but the gun.

If it caught the ghost of guard it was worth it.

Hot on Sam's heels he dashed into the basement of the old house. The split up instantly, both searching for something, something that they could use to kill the spirit.

John vaguely wondered how he could have missed it last time he was down here. It was his job to do this kind of thing – he knew what he was looking for.

How could have missed it…unless it wasn't here?

Sammy seemed to be coming to the same conclusion; the room was just too small for there to be much hiding in.

John looked over to see Sam whip out the mobile and hit the speed dial.

"Sammy? What are you…?"

Sam waved a hand at him before saying into the phone, "Bobby? Yeah, how big is the basement?"

John waited, realising what Sam was getting at – was there a fake wall?

"Good, how far was the back wall from the stairs?" Sam sounded annoyed, apparently Bobby wasn't answering quite fast enough.

John smiled; he loved it when Sam got pissed at other people. It reminded him somewhat of himself.

"It's a metre, maybe two…" Sam replied thoughtfully, looking interesting at the space between the top of the stairs and the back of the basement.

OoOoOoO

Bobby quickly measure the room from the plans he'd been using to guess where the body of the spirit would be.

"Back wall should be about ten metres from the bottom of the stairs. How far is it there?"

_It's a metre, maybe two…_ Came Sam's response.

"That's it then! She must be hidden behind there."

_Ok, question! Why and WHO would put a fake wall in a basement after 3 people died there and _conveniently _forget to move the bodies?_

Bobby sat stunned, he hadn't thought of that. Shifting through some paper he brought up the document on the next owner of the house, who hadn't stayed long.

The owner had been a little odd, had bricked up 18 other house basements in his time.

"I guess…" Bobby mused, "That he had a thing against basements…or maybe he feared going too far into them. Afraid of the dark perhaps?"

A sigh on the other end of the line. _I don't really have time to panic over this kind of thing._

Bobby heard the distinctive thud of someone, most likely John, bashing the hell out of a wooden wall.

"Call me later." He told Sam before hanging up.

OoOoOoOoO

Three teenagers approached a motel door all of the bouncing with excitement and positively thrilled to have escaped the car after such a long trip.

Banging on the door they waited. No answer.

"He's not here." One of them observed.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Dean forced his eyes open and looked down at his chest, a lovely red welt stretched over his stomach.

Cursing the bitch that did this to him he lifted a hand to try and stop the blood.

He couldn't stop the moan of pain as sharp pins of anguish shot up his arm.

He cursed some more, using a more creative spectrum of words and languages this time.

He really wished he was with his friends.

----- TBC -----

Sorry it was so short; I didn't have a lot of time.

Please REVIEW !!!– I really need to know if you still like this.

Keep Smilin' :D


	8. Progress

Hey guys, I am SO sorry for the wait. It's been just over four months, but as promised I am updating before Christmas.

The long delay is caused by my being distracted by a mad end of term rush, an increase in social events and my passing out yesterday. I apologise, but now I have time there should be more chapters and stories heading your way.

Thanks to all my reviewers, hope this chapter is enjoyable.

_**Chapter Eight**_

The wall was strong. But nothing could withstand the anger of John Winchester. Sam had heard stories from Bobby about John's adventures in the days before he'd let the boys come with him.

But even Bobby would be surprised by the efficient dismantling of the partly wooden, partly brick wall in the back of the basement.

With a mixture of serious pounding and well placed bullets John succeeded in finding a place where there was only wood, ripping a hole through it, climbing through and promptly smashing the wall away from the inside out, until there was space enough to search for the corpse.

OoOoOoO

She sat silently at the opposite end of the room, watching and waiting.

To her great delight her guest had woken, and was desperately trying to stop the bleeding, whilst cursing her for coming within two inches of him.

And she had never heard such swearing. So far she'd counted twelve languages and over 53 insults.

He'd been talking for less than a minute.

None of her other victims had been quite so entertaining, save one. Her son.

She could see him in this boy. They had the same smart ass demeanour. The same colour hair. But there was something else that connected her son and this boy.

Something she didn't quite know. Perhaps it was the fact the he was still alive, still moving, still bitching about her.

Smiling she watched as he struggled to steam the blood flow, still cursing her. Then she felt it.

Something was wrong.

She could hear voices.

Taking another look at her victim she willed herself to leave.

She would not let them stop her before the end.

OoOoOoOoO

"I found it!" John shouted at Sam, who was at the other side of the basement scouring the floor and walls for clues.

At the sound of his father's voice he turned, already pulling out his own lighter, and rushing over as John sprayed the corpse with oil and salt.

The room temperature dropped a few degrees.

Glancing at each other they shared an unspoken conversation.

She was coming.

--- TBC ---

Thanks for being patient. Please review if you're still hanging around and reading this. It would mean a lot to me.

You made it this far…please let me know what you think! And if you can't think of anything to say, let me know what your favourite episode of Supernatural has been so far!?

Keep Smilin' :D


	9. Fiasco

Explanations at the end of the chapter. I won't keep you in further suspense:

**BLADE'S EDGE**

Have you ever passed out? It really is just like in the movies. You feel a little woozy, like the world isn't quite the right way up anymore. Dean leant backwards a little, trying to maintain his balance, unaware that he was precariously close to tipping over backwards again.

His trembling hands pressed onto his chest with surprising strength, all things considered, as he did his best to hold them still through sheer force of will alone.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, fuzziness started to creep into his peripheral vision. He blink dumbly, trying to push it away, but when his eyes opened it had turned black, and his vision narrowed almost comically until it was gone.

He didn't even feel himself collapse back onto the ground. Perhaps if he had, he may have come to the conclusion that sitting up had not been the best idea of the morning.

OoOoOoOo

Her sneering face was almost too disturbing for Sam to gather his wits. It was as if her skin was stretched across her face awkwardly, as she flickered into being before his very eyes.

Fumbling with a lighter behind him, John cursed loudly at her. She moved forwards, hands outstretched as though she intended on sinking then into Sam's shoulders and drawing his insides out.

"Sam!" John called, trying to call her attention away from his son. If looks could kill, the withering one Sam sent his way certainly would have rivalled the ghosts.

"Light the god-damned fire Dad!" Sam yelled, brandishing an iron fire poker before his like a gun. "I can deal with this."

Caught between the desire to save his son from the ghost or to return to his so-far unsuccessful attempts at starting a fire, John paused for a heartbeat. Then remembering how he would have punished his boys for this very same hesitation he discarded the lighter as useless, and rummaged in his pockets for a piece of flint and steel. Sticking the two together with the passion of a budding pyromaniac John's eyes lit up as sparks bounced onto the corpse and smoked for a moment.

A growl of despair caught in his throat for a moment, before he was forcibly ripped from where he stood and was sent crashing backwards across the floor. Jumping to his feet he saw Sam army crawling across the floor, arms outstretched, fingers scrapping the dust to reach the discarded lighter and Josie Smith, her bloodshot eyes narrowing, turned her attention fully to the elder hunter.

OoOoOoO

"Brrrrrrrrrr"

What an odd noise. There was silence.

"Brrrr…Brrrrr…Brrrrrrrr!"

It persisted. Screwing up his face, he swatted it away. "Brrrrrrr."

With a groan, a dishevelled Dean started. His phone, still chirping as it hummed on silent, a habit a hunter always maintained lest a Metallica ring-tone attracted unwanted demon attention on a hunt, was half falling out of his pocket as someone maintained their hell-sent mission to reach him.

A shaking hand reached out, and picked it up, followed by wide eyes. Why was his hand so red?

As he carefully pressed answer, he realised rolled slightly to the side. As a result, his chipper "hello" came out sound something more like "Hell-ahhh!"

His eyes went to the source of his protesting pain, a gaping, leaking hole in his chest. His addled brain immediately picked up the signs of shock. He didn't hurt nearly as much as he ought to.

"Dean?" He had forgotten he'd even answered the phone. "Is that you?"

A grunt to the affirmative slipped through his lips before he could stop it.

There was the sound of shuffling over the phone, though he paid little attention to it as he dazedly looked around for Sammy or his father's calming presence.

"Dean, brother!" came a bizarrely chipper voice. Why were all these voices so happy? Dean's brow furrowed in concentration, but the answer could not come to him.

"Whossit?" He slurred in response.

"Dean, dude, the D-Dog," Responded the first voice. So loud, it was so loud. "You ok? It's Jamie, remember? We're meeting…oh I say, a good five minutes ago!"

Dean's eyes widened. "Mmmfine" He mumbled, "Chasin' strip…pers"

A chortle of laughter responded. "But seriously Dean, where are you? Need someone to come get you?"

Dean shook his head before he realised it was both a terrible idea because it sent the world ricocheting across his vision and because Jamie couldn't see him.

But his ability to respond was inhibited by the sudden, violent urge to puke. Struggling to sit up, gasping for breath, he half-heartedly crawled onto his hands and knees before emptying the contents of his stomach, one cheeseburger – extra fries, onto the floor.

Sucking in air with a wheezing noise, his hand felt for his phone somewhere to his left, where the other end was violently yelling things about ambulances and police.

A little voice in his head recognised Catherine's voice, but his brain felt like it was under a wet blanket, and the though never quite made it to his lips.

"I'm fine" he gasped, "Just had an accident." The world titled again. "I'll be there in an hour," It took a lot of strength. "Trust me ok?"

He didn't hear the reply, his numb fingers had already hung up and he started to drag himself towards the door.

Standing unsteadily, hunched over like an old woman and tottering in a most unmanly fashion that the GREAT Dean Winchester would never admit in public (or private for that matter) to ever having done, he grasped the door handle, thanking whatever small mercy that it opened with a slouching reluctance. The ghost's attention must be elsewhere.

It occurred to Dean that he had entered the house with a gun…but he knew that if he went back for it, well, he'd probably never make it back to the door.

Walking was harder these days, he was sure of it.

OoOoOoOoO

John stood where he was, squaring his shoulders, facing her down, watching Sam silently flick a small flame into existence with the lighter with his peripheral vision.

_You shouldn't have come. _

Her mouth didn't move, but he could hear her words so clearly. His jaw set. Sam just need a few more seconds.

"But I did." He said.

Her head tilted to the side, she took a step forward, her whole being flickering like she was being transmitted by a broken cable connection.

A crackle behind her and he head whipped around, but it was too late. The body was alight, even as her body stumbled towards Sam's triumphant face it she was burning, disintegrating.

Brushing his hands off on his equally dirty jeans, dirt and grime stuck to his cheeks in a manner that made his grin seem slightly maniacal, Sam collected his fire poker and forgotten gun. "Let's get Dean!"

And the two of them carefully made their way towards the stairs, with a harried pace and racing hearts.

OoOoOoO

He'd done it!

It was fourteen staggered steps, but he, the SUPREME Dean Winchester had made it to the top of the stairs. A smile graced his still shockingly fine features (if he didn't say so himself).

A stray hand clutched at the banister with white knuckles, as his other arm wrapped protectively around his burning stomach.

Immensely proud of himself, he tried to stand up straighter without thinking, but the stabbing and tearing of his protesting muscles caused him to lean forwards again, eyes closed.

He took a set forward, hoping to regain his balance. The only clue of his surprise was the widening of his eyes as he realised there was nothing below to catch his foot.

The stairs seems to stretch eternally below him as his body tipped forwards and his left hand let go of the railing in an effort to catch himself.

The world tipped so slowly, before the ground floor of the house suddenly seemed to be getting so much closer that it was before…

- TBC -

Firstly: I AM SORRY IT HAS BEEN SO LONG! It has been about three years. A very long three years. There's been so much happening that I'm afraid I'd take up too much space trying to explain away my absence. So I won't. I'll just say that when I told you this story was "on hold" and not "abandoned" I meant it. It will be finished.

Thanks for sticking around if you have.

Please send a review and let me know if you feel this new chapter is a good one, I think my writing style may have changed a little!

Keep Smilin' :)


	10. Bleeding

**The Road So Far**: Dean, Sam and John have investigated a haunting. The spirit has trapped Dean and stabbed him whilst Sam and John scramble for something to destroy and save him. A little help from Bobbie leads them to the basement where they struggle to burn the corpse. Upstairs Dean has struggled to his feet but it precariously faced with a painful fall down the stairs, and his friend are still trying to reach him, wondering why he's not hanging out the way normal kids do.

**BLADE'S EDGE**

There are moments in life when it feels like you should give up trying. After all, you can't win every battle, succeed in every endeavour. Sometimes, you lose.

No one knew this better than John Winchester, who'd felt the bitter sting of loss more than he'd like. The deepest of those scars, no doubt about it, was the place where Mary had been ripped from him.

Since that moment all those years ago, he'd lived in the constant awareness that life could make two fresh scars to match it. He had more to lose. He had two sons that might one day be ripped away by a darkness he didn't understand.

But if you knew him, you'd agree John Winchester wasn't one to wait out the dark night. He was more the kind to load a gun, strap a hunting knife to his shin and chase the darkness right out of his house with a few choice words that could put a sailor to shame.

So quite naturally, Sam wasn't surprised when his father paused halfway up the basement stairs to watch the last dying embers of the recently torched corpse smoulder in vain denial of their eminent demise. Pushing past his father, determined to reach Dean before the drama that was his life struck again, Sam's footsteps sounded hollowly in the silence. John's eyes tracked his son's hurried movements, aware of the urgency that seeped in the stale air, but unable to move further until his was sure this was over. He'd lost to much to chase away the darkness only to have it slink back unnoticed whilst his back was turned. Sam would find Dean; he'd only have to wait a moment to be sure.

OoOoOoO

Sam raced up the stairs, aware his father would be behind him in a heartbeat, and retraced his footsteps to the rickety old staircase that loomed ominously in the entrance hall. A creaking caught his attention before he'd even turned the corner from the kitchen and he pressed his aching body to move a little faster.

The sight before him falter for a second, Dean was hunched forward at the top of the stairs, one arm clutching at his stomach. The other trembling arm was stretched out to the railing, a white-knuckled hand steadying his form on the rotting wood.

"Dean?" Sam asked, trying not to startle his brother. He needn't have worried though, Dean didn't, or couldn't hear. Instead, with an almost manic smile plastered on his face he seemed to review his progress from the room down the hall, slightly glazed eyes swept back to the stairs but didn't register Sam moving up them.

"Dean, hold on," Sam said forcefully. "Don't do something stupid..."

As if on cue, or perhaps just to spite him, Dean straightened his body to its full height.

Sam's right foot caught on the next step as his eyes snapped to his brother's tattered T-shirt, a bloody mess was oozing its way between Dean's fingers, that clumsily clutched at the site of...time froze for a second as his brain registered Dean's groan of pain and his brother doubled forward both arms snaking around his waist protectively.

Sam's knees crashing painfully into the staircase brought him back to Earth, a painful protest announced itself somewhere near his right ankle but in a split second he had pushed himself up again, scrambling up the stairs as his brother, unaware of his precarious situation, stumbled over the edge and with a pained cry became airborne.

"Dean!" Sam launched himself over the last three stairs, his hands forcefully pushing Dean upwards and suddenly it was over. He stood there panting clutching his older brother to his chest, at the top of the stairs.

A guttural noise from Dean broke the silent relief Sam had been relishing, afraid that moving would send them both back into a desperate struggle with gravity. Carefully assessing his plan to move his brother back onto the landing he re-adjusted his arms.

"Dean? How you doing?" He asked with nonchalance, as he spun his around his brother and heaved him backwards up the stairs with as much delicacy as he could.

"Juuuuust peachy." Came the cheerful response.

"Pleased to hear it." Sam deadpanned, laying his brother down and ripping his own shirt off.

"Woah, woah, easy there...tiger." Dean whispered, a smirk playing on his lips, "You can't...take...advantage of a...man wh-." A loud groan interrupted his little brother pressed his bundled shirt onto his wounded chest with surprising force.

"Trust me man, you're not my type." Sam whispered.

"How is he?" Amusement evident in John's voice as he sat heavily beside them, he'd obviously raced up the stairs unnoticed by his sons, his eyes however, held a very real concern in his eyes and he set a medical kit and bundle of towels beside them. John Winchester had learnt that when you have a son like Dean, you bring all the necessary supplies with you.

"Dad!" Dean announced loudly. His dazed eyes turned to his father. "Where have you been?"

"Shock?" Sam supplied a tentative assessment. As he pressed the wound with one hand and expertly checked Dean's body for other injuries.

"Just getting the meds, son." John replied to Dean, as he propped his son's feet up on the backpack and cut the shreds of his shirt away.

"Meds?" Dean whispered, his lips cracked and dry.

Wide-eyed, Sam opened the first-aid kit and discarded his shirt now that he blood seemed to be under control. Quickly replacing it with a piece of gauze he looked at his father again. Dean's breath hitched under his ministrations. A gasping, deep breath sounded and Dean's weak fingers reached to swat Sam's hand away.

"Sammy?" His head lolled to the side, "What's happening?"

"Dean." Sam's own voice cracked a little at the sight of his brother's lost gaze boring into his. "We're hunting."

"Whaaddam I...lying down for?"

"I..." Without adequate response, Sam simply let his father push him aside and took up Dean's hand in his own.

John was already washing the wound down with something from a clear bottle, a needle and thread in one hand. "Sam, hold him together."

It wasn't a question.

Removing his hands from Dean's weak grasp he paused, "Pain?" He prompted, the his eyes landed on the vodka bottle his father was dousing his brother in. "Seriously?" He seethed.

The conversation was silenced with a look that clearly said: _got a better plan? _John nudged the bottled towards Sam.

"It'll take too long." Venom injected itself into his words even as Sam lifted his brother's head and shook the bottle tentatively, but Dean was already skulling like it was water. "Easy bro," He warned gently, "this won't help the blood loss." He added it quietly, but the words were like a sharpened stake aim right for the spot between John's eyes. Not that his father listening, he'd already threaded the needle and carefully pulling the edges of Dean's stomach back together.

"Hold. Him. Together." Came the response. This time it was an order.

With a long worn sigh that seemed so out of place in context, Sam leant his hands forward and, with a face rapidly paling pressed his fingers against his brother's slippery, sticky skin.

A twitch of Dean's arm was the only response his got.

OoOoOoOoO

Pain. Fiery pain. Coursing throughout his veins like glass. Broken, shattered, tiny little shards of glass exploded across his belly, forcing their way up his spine and down his legs, to his fingertips, whipping through his brain like it was wet paper.

His arms twitched but had none of the strength required to beat the living hell out of whatever evil spawn had decided to further his awful, personal trip to hell.

He needed to tell them, to make them stop. He wanted to beg and plead and scream for his mama.

But Dean Winchester was a warrior. A good one, he'd liked to think, and so there was no way he'd give in. No one would ever get the satisfaction of making his scream...at least, not by running him through with a sword. He was better than that.

_I don't care how much it hurts. _He thought quietly.

"I'm so sorry Dean!" There came a childish, terrified voice that barely masked some very real sense of dread and guilt he couldn't understand.

"Sam?" He wondered aloud. Why was Sam in his personal hell? "What are you doing here?" He asked breathlessly.

"I'm here to help you." The voice stuttered a little bit for a second as whispered words were exchanged somewhere that sounded so far away.

_Be careful Dad! You're hurting him. _A rummaging sound, another piercing pain somewhere, he couldn't feel where. _It's called stiches Sam, not glue... _A muffled sob, followed by a defeated sigh. _He'll be fine. Look, I'm almost done ok? _There was a shuffling, another stab to the stomach and Dean felt like he was going to die. _Calm down son. _This time the voice was more reassuring, its husky tones injected with real kindness. Dean let them wash over him, until he realised they were directed at Sam. Was Sammy hurt?

_There, done! See look Sammy, good as new? _John's gentle voice seemed to calm Sam's panic. The stabbing pain dulled to a throb. No, Dean took that back, it was still agony incarnate, and somehow it had made his body its host.

Someone was stroking his hand, it was distracting, and for a second the burning was a simmering, then something splashed over him. Fire. Ice. Needles. He didn't know what it was but it was everywhere and instead of killing him like he so so hoped it would, it made him more alive. More aware, his nerve endings stood to attention and soaked up every last painful drop of torture.

Someone was whimpering. Who? He couldn't hear - the rushing sound in his ears was too loud.

Someone was saying his name but his muscles were too rigid, too tense for him to focus on anything else.

Then, as quickly as it had started it was over.

Just like that noise became silence, pain slid into numbness and light to dark.

The energy ebbed from his body, and he was vaguely aware that his eyes had been open all this time without seeing, because he felt them drift shut.

- TBC -

Firstly...umm, hello? Heh. Sorry about that long wait. I've been promising an update for forever and I haven't forgotten that promise. This story will be finished.

I'd like to know what you think though. My writing style has (once again) changed. So please be honest!

Read and Review if you can!

THANKYOU so much for reading and sticking with me so far. It means a lot to me!

Keep Smilin' :)


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